The Bridge
by The Flesh of JRB
Summary: The knight captain remembers the loss of Zenon bridge to the army of The Magus.


The Bridge

Silence.

There was something so exquisite about it. An emptiness that he could retreat to. If only he could stage a permanent withdrawal there. Nothing would bother him again. No Magus, no hordes of mystics, and no destroyed bridge that was there for all to see. To show everyone who cared to look how much of a failure he really was: their captain of all knights.

He could hear the criticisms of his brother even before the left the older man's lips: "You think you're so important because you have that fancy gold armor? You're not. I know exactly what you were before they gave you that fancy suit. You can't fool me at all."

He couldn't. Not even since they were kids allowed to roam the grounds at Guardia castle because their family was a distant relation to the crown.

Bryce, the Knight Captain, had stuck a sword through his older brother's apron-covered gut so many times in his head. Byron, the Royal Chef, had one of the best jobs in all of Guardia. Military officers could come and go, but the king and queen had to eat. It was said that no one understood the royal family better than the people who were trusted to make their food. Byron had gone years without a challenger, and once time had gone by, and the royal pallet had been determined, the chef could pretty much bank on a permanent position.

Bryce's own welfare depended on his ability to win battles. He already faced and uphill struggle because his name wasn't "Cyrus". It was sad how a single name could make such a difference. That his own men that he led into battle would falter in spirit when they remembered that Cyrus was gone.

Even his brother knew how to twist that so much that it wrenched his soul every time.

"You're not even better than a man who's not even here to compete anymore. And your men know it."

Bryce shifted in his bed. His subordinate hadn't come to wake him yet. Not that he was truly sleeping. The most he could manage was to dip in and out: his consciousness not allowing him to think about other things. In that way, there really was no such thing as rest.

He imagined Cyrus' corpse in a ditch somewhere, which was the only rest he could expect. Truth be told: he wanted Cyrus to be dead. That was the only excuse for him not being there. Technically Cyrus wasn't part of the regular army. He was a knight-protector sworn to the queen, which made his absence even worse when Bryce thought about it.

In weaker moments, Bryce imagined Cyrus sitting in some tavern somewhere: drunk, fat, and a wretched coward running from his failure to slay Sir Magus of The Mystics. It had been a fool's quest anyway. Assassinations were shots in the dark. Bryce had secretly ordered the assassinations of Magus' top subordinates in an effort to cripple the Mystic's morale. Nothing succeeded. Either his men just disappeared or parts of them were delivered to the castle in baskets. Fortunately, all he had to tell the king was that they had been regular soldiers and not assassins. The heinous nature pf the Mystic's actions did not matter. Everyone in Guardia believed they were beasts anyway.

It was the waste that mattered. Now, Bryce held on to every soldier like he was a brother. It wasn't practical in a war, but he couldn't help it. Perhaps he hoped the chancellor would find some better man to lead. Bryce would welcome the chance to rest, and lets someone else's decisions kill hundreds of men. But, so far, no great legendary hero had appeared. No Masamune, no Hero Medal, and no hero there to save them. There was only Bryce and the men still foolish enough to find his orders worth their time.

There were other high-ranking officers in the field, but most of them were newly promoted. In a war like theirs, where the end wasn't in sight now matter how hard they pushed, many soldiers would die and many others would decide to abandon the effort. Choras offered good money to battle-hardened Guardians willing to keep the mystics off their island.

Bryce had thought about that once, but how would he live with himself? He wasn't Cyrus. The great Cyrus, who could do no wrong, because he wasn't there to do anything. He was Sir Bryce, who people just called "The Knight Captain". As though all he was was a position to be filled. Where was that romantic pee-on Glenn? That co-called friend of Cyrus had been absolute in his beliefs. It was he who propagated so much of the Cyrus Myth. He, who deserved to wallow in the post-Cyrus mire they were drowning in. Drowning. Just like his men at the bridge.

It wasn't a dream. How he wished it wasn't but it edges were too clear. It was torturous regret: Dream's blood thirsty fury-like cousin. Hr remembered everything as it was on Zenon Bridge just five months before.

He's arrived on a Wednesday morning. Preparations had been underway for month. Dozens of men and conscripted workers had buried and hidden a massive supply cache. Mystic agents had penetrated deep into Guardia territory, and arson was common. The Knights of The Square Table had to protect this chance to push the mystics back to the far east ends of Zenon. From there, it would be one more offensive to remove them from Zenon completely. They suspected several camps to be in the large forest to the south, and there were rumors that the Mystics had some secret way onto the continent from the underground, or through some magic gateway. No one was really sure.

Bryce was willing to exterminate every mystic they found. All they needed was the momentum. Even the youngest, most inexperienced soldiers, some little more than tall children, would become a potent force if they believed that they were unstoppable. It was supposed to go so very well. That was the problem with well-laid plans. They were the biggest disappointments. Impulsive actions that led to victory were looked at as being miracles, because people couldn't believe that things could go so well if there was no reason to it.

A clutch of five knights surrounded him at all times. Being so protected was a minor annoyance, and Bryce did feel some people would get the wrong idea about him. It didn't matter though, he thought, let the ignorant people think what they like.

The sergeant of the engineers' brigade approached. These men were specially trained to handle all construction work, and received special instructions from the renowned smithy of Truce Village. The sergeant's armor was covered in grease and had all manner of tools hanging from it. The brigade had been reinforcing the bridge so they could later move war machines across. Long terms plans existed in which they would tear down Magus' castle, and destroy a fortress that Ozzie supposedly maintained. They hadn't yet worked out how to cross the sea with the machines, but some were planning on building machines that could be reassembled off a boat. But those plans were long in the future. Until then, the engineers were keeping the bridge up.

"Good too see you, Captain," said the sergeant, "I trust you journey was safe."

"You wouldn't be implying anything, would you sergeant?"

"No, sir. Just inquiring as to your health. We have lost so many good men over the years that any more losses are certain to spell doom for…"

"Enough, sergeant." The man was visibly shaken. Bryce knew that the engineers didn't sleep much. He recognized the look of tired desperation, because it was the same plastered onto his own face on so many painful mornings. It was often made worse because the mystics loved nighttime raids. Their vision was substantially better than that of their human counterparts.

"I am fine enough, sergeant. Now, tell me about the bridge, and about how reinforced it is."

"Right," the engineer took refuge in his technical matters, "We've added extra support struts wrapped in steel bands to all but the south-most tip."

"We need the whole bridge secure."

"Yes, Sir, but we've encountered stiff resistance. A large company of Diablos has been flying in from the east, and picking off any man by himself. They do this while a force of Henches attacks us directly."

"What of the men we sent down here last week?"

Doyle, the engineer winced, "Most are dead, and the others went to Dorino to supplement the mayor's home guard."

"I've heard nothing of bodies being returned."

"That's because they mystics have been taking them away. Fro what, we don't know."

That's precisely why, thought Bryce, to make us insecure and afraid. If their soldiers not only died, but their bodies vanished or mutilated, they would have even less support from the people. And the moment they no longer had volunteers, they would be forced to take more conscripts. This would make the king look even worse, and then the mystics would start offering deals to Dorino and Choras. Isolating Guardia and getting one step closer to destroying the human power base. No doubt, Byron would find some way of shaping the whole thing to be Bryce's fault.

"We're putting an end to these raids today. We have new crossbows from Truce. I want every man quickly trained and issued one. No one works alone. One man works, and his fellow watches his back like his brother, clear?"

"Yes, Sir. We'll get right on it."

He was glad the man didn't inquire as to who would watch the back of the guard watching the back of the worker. We can't protect everyone all the time, thought Bryce, this is war after all.

He and his group of knights moved up the bridge to survey the area. The rains had been heavy in the last month, and the bridge had that musty smell of soggy wood. Even the extra coats of pitch they spread on it were not enough to maintain its surface. He longed for a stone bridge, but it just wasn't practical. So much of the useful quarried stone had gone into expanding and fortifying the castle. The mystics had also cast various spells to corrupt the stone into a brittle mass that could no longer be formed properly. Bryce felt that everything was allied against the humans—against him.

"We need to call up a reserve," he said to Cochran, one of his knights, "I want the engineers to worry about the bridge and not a bout a raid."

The knight saluted, and was off to Truce.

XXX

Later, Bryce stood on the bridge. A bright figure in his golden armor, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword _Mystic Bane_. He'd killed countless mystics with it. Going back to when he'd received it with his first promotion at nineteen. Fifteen years later it was still ready to draw mystic blood. Once, he'd even brought _Mystic Bane_ against the swordsman Slash. Responsibility should've kept him from giving into a personal duel, but there was always that sad belief that maybe one victory, no matter how small, could change the course of the war.

It had been on the bridge only a few years before. The swordsman Slash was beyond human comprehension with his blade. Everything Bryce possessed and more than a little luck had gone into fending off the mystic's frenzy. Then, some terrified private of the Guardian Army had charged into the middle of it. The brave were often called so posthumously. Slash cut the boy to pieces, but the distraction gave Bryce a chance, which he took. _Mystic Bane_ bashed into the swordsman's armor. It didn't fully penetrate it, but Bryce recognized the wince of pain even on a mystic's face. Then the mage Flea stopped the fight with a blast of magic that Bryce avoided by jumping off of the bridge.

He'd never met the swordsman again. He wanted to, but the only reason the top lieutenants of The Magus had been there was because they were pushing an offensive that eventually captured the bridge. It took a year of hard fighting to get it back. Bryce still got reports of the swordsman Slash and of the magician Flea. They had become immortal names that the lowliest of mystics could rally behind. The only name Guardia had was Cyrus.

He admired the grain of the wood. How even the cracks formed by the pressure and water looked to belong to the wood. They gave it character. Like a scar or age line on an old face. They told stories. Had they been there at Bryce's failed moment of glory? They didn't say so, and he doubted they would care.

There was the slightest tap of against the metal of his helmet: a drop of rain. Again with the rain, he thought. If a mystic's spell didn't kill him, the gloomy weather would. He swore he could remember something called "The Sun" that roamed the sky from time to time.

"Sir," he heard from behind him. Cochran had returned at the head of a dozen men.

"This is all you could find?"

"We're spread thin as it is, sir. On short notice, these were the only able-bodied and trained men we had."

This was more and more often the case. Resources were depleted, and they were not being renewed. Bryce had a recurring nightmare where he had his knights had their backs to the door leading to the Guardian throne room. They would swear to each other that those doors would only be broken through when the last of them was dead.

That's not going to happen, he told himself, I can stop this. I can push the war away from Guardia proper. Just buy us some more time. Maybe Cyrus will even come back. Don't kid yourself. The hero is dead and rotten or fled and a mockery of himself.

"Very well," he told Cochran, "Set up own men on th—"

He spun through the air, and the wood, that he had previously been admiring, came rushing up at his face. All went black, but he regained consciousness quickly enough to hear the shouts of men and the drawing of steel.

"Help the captain," someone cried.

Was it Cochran? He didn't know. The very life of his bones seemed to have decayed. There was the will to get up and draw _Mystic Bane_. To slay his enemies as he'd always done, but it was quite impossible.

They picked him up, and he was able to see again. The rain was picking up, and with it scores of Diablos had come. The yellow-skinned "demon" mystics swooped down upon the hapless Guardian troops, who tried desperately to beat them back with sword and shield. A few men managed to load and fire the new crossbows. Some Diablos fell from the sky with iron bolts sticking out of their bodies. Bryce had personally ordered barbs put on the bolts to make removing them even more destructive than the initial penetration. Most of the Diablos on the ground were not dead. They would later wish that they were.

Bryce was led to a position amongst some supply crates that several workers had retreated to. More crossbows were brought out, and the position became a stronghold. The soldiers further away were struggling. Even Bryce's knights with their superior training and armament were losing ground.

"What happened to me?" Bryce's speech was slurred. He hoped they understood him.

Cochran seemed to glean the meaning of it. He spoke with a kind of exaggerated pronunciation to help Bryce understand, though Bryce would later recall it as being a little too much. "You were hit by a spell. We though you'd been killed."

"Reinforcements…call…"

"As I said sir, this is it."

One of Bryce's knights, a young man named Hale, tied to make his way to the stronghold. Not half way there a pack of Diablos swarmed all over him. The kicked, bashed, smashed, twisted, pulled, and in moments the armor was off. Then more Diablos joined. Bryce and the others watched as the Diablos tore Hale to pieces. No amount of barbed-iron bolts or the bravery of the men that rushed in could stop the fury of teeth and claws that rendered the knight into a trail of abused meat scattered across the bridge.

Even if it hadn't been intended as such, Bryce got the message the mystics wanted to send: the humans were done for.

"Retreat," he slurred to the remaining men.

They looked disappointed, but no one offered any objection. The last piece of Hale tumbled off the bridge into the Strait of Zenon, which settled any further dispute about the order. They would flee, and they would live. It wasn't the first defeat Guardia had suffered, nor would it be the last. For Bryce, there was only the despair that he hadn't been able to participate as even the lowest ranking solider always could. That glory that he promised so many other men had slipped past him.

As they led him away, Bryce looked back to the bridge, and he saw the mystics clear a way, and two figures came into view. He knew who they were. Bryce had seen them on that bridge three years before: the swordsman Slash and the magician Flea. As they grew smaller in his eyes, he watched them set up, and perform a cu-de-grace. Slash leapt into the air as Flea sent a burst of power into his blade. They did this a few times, and each time Slash's blade bit into the wood of the bridge, it gave way a little. Then it broke off and tumbled into the strait of Zenon. More of Bryce's men, who hadn't been able to retreat because they were caught up in the fighting, were taken along with the wood into the sea beneath them.

That had been the day Bryce knew that they mystics' threat against humanity was as dire as they claimed it was. Even he, the most respected of the real soldiers in Guardia, wasn't powerful enough.

XXX

The trick about falling into self-imposed oblivion was that in the end you came to realize that you had no such power. No matter how much Bryce wished to die and let his disgrace end, he was still faced with the coming of the sun, as brief as it was, in the morning.

They let him sleep longer than he ordered. No doubt they had silently agreed to give their captain some "time". It was like poking the corpse of a friend with a sword. Reason screamed to move on, but humans were foolish enough to believe in hope. He rose and walked out of his private room. He remembered that on that particular day he'd been carried into his room, and out of sight.. He did like being in the barracks to see his men, and to encourage the wounded to recover, but that was a different matter. As a leader, a person had to be above standards. If the king were to be wounded it would be a tragic symbol, but it would speak volumes of the king's leadership. A combat leader had to hide injuries as best as they could. What he'd sustained on the bridge was a sneak-attack of the lowest order. That was how they played it. They said that the mystics had only disgraced themselves. Months had gone by, and there were new plans to rebuild the bridge.

Bryce wore only his fine tunic and trousers. It was good enough. The gold armor and red cape couldn't be worn all the time. He reminded himself to have them cleaned and polished. Even if it was only to die, he would have to put them on with some measure of self-respect.

As he walked the halls of Guardia castle, he was given a wide berth. The people that did speak to him said how glad they were that he'd survived this long. He should've mentioned all of the other men that died, but he didn't. That would come later. He was just going to check on his men, when Byron stood in his way.

"Look at you not even in your fancy uniform. You haven't been the same since that day," the chef said, "Before they carried you in I thought the world would have to get by with another lost hero."

"I'm not a hero," he said, "I'm just a man that happened to live. Some live and some die. That's how it is."

The chef blanched. "What soldierly nonsense."

Bryce walked around Byron, and kept walking.

Byron called out to him. "You're not the only one fighting, you know!"

"I know," he said, not looking back, "That's why I got out of bed again."


End file.
